‘Hmmph.’ Weatherby stared down the barrel of the shotgun, then picked up his ramrod. ‘Still, it’s a fox.’
‘The most likely culprit lives by the river,’ Robert continued. ‘I’ve set traps.’
‘Make no mistake, Lord Wynchwood wants to see a brush, lad. It’s results what counts with our master.’
And it was the creatures who counted with the young lady of the house. The thought of her knowing he’d killed the creature she’d drawn so lovingly made him feel sick. He was a soft-hearted fool. She’d got her drawing, made a damned fine job of it, too. She didn’t need the animal as well. Yet the sadness in her eyes had caused him to forget his duty to his employer. He’d risked his position for gratitude in a pair of ocean-coloured eyes. He must have lost his mind.
‘He’ll have his brush,’ Robert muttered. ‘I’ll check the traps later.’ Robert placed the gleaming weapon in the rack on the wall. ‘Do you have any instructions for today?’
‘Hares, if you can get’em, and trout, for his lordship’s table.’
Robert nodded. ‘By the way, I noticed a break in the hedge down by the river—might be the way our poacher is getting in. Shall I have it fixed?’
‘I don’t know how I managed before you came along,’ Weatherby said.
Robert nodded his thanks and picked up his far-inferior shotgun to the one he’d cleaned for his lordship. ‘Is there anything you’d like for your pot, Mr Weatherby?’
‘Not today, lad. The missus exchanged a brace of pheasant for a nice bit of pork. I reckon it will do us for a couple of days.’
Roasted pork. Robert could almost taste it.
‘What you need, lad, is a wife.’ Weatherby groaned to his feet and shouldered his own gun. ‘You’d get a proper dinner.’
Robert couldn’t imagine anything worse. What woman would want to share this hard life of his? Not the kind of woman he’d want. But celibacy didn’t appeal much either. Perhaps he’d snuggle up to the barmaid at the Bull and Mouth this evening. She seemed like a cheerful sort, and willing, from the gleam in her eye.
Weatherby gave him a dig with his elbow on the way to the door. ‘How about our Maisie? She’s taken quite a shine to ye.’
He repressed a shudder. As a kitchen wench, Maisie was a fine lass, but not one to whom he could bear to be shackled.
‘I’m not looking for a wife until I’m better set up. I’d best be off, sir, if I’m to get all of this done before dark and catch his lordship’s fox.’
Weatherby grunted. ‘Right-ho. Talking of getting established, I heard of a position for a head gamekeeper opening up in Norfolk. Small place, mostly water birds. Might be a good start. I’d miss you here, but you’ve a talent for the work.’
Hard work did pay off. For the first time in his life Robert felt truly appreciated. He couldn’t stop the grin spreading over his face. ‘Thank you, Mr Weatherby. I’d appreciate your recommendation.’
‘Ah. Time to thank me, if you get the job. We’ll see, lad. We’ll see.’ He stomped out of the door. For Robert, hard on his heels, the chill winter day suddenly seemed a great deal brighter.
Out in the courtyard, he toyed with the idea of stopping by the kitchen and asking Maisie to deliver the book he’d dug out of his meagre store to Miss Bracewell.
Charlie had purchased it for him when he’d expressed an interest in helping with the ducal estates. It hadn’t taken Father long to veto the idea. The estates were not his concern.
For some reason he’d kept the book.
Miss Bracewell would find it helpful in locating the animals she liked to draw—assuming she’d accept a gift from someone like him. The thought cut off his breath. Servants, particularly Maisie, loved gossip. He’d be giving them grist for their mills if he did something so stupid. He patted his pocket. He’d better keep it for when he could give it to her privately.
If the young lady stayed true to her habits, he’d see her somewhere on the Wynchwood estate in the next few days.
Later that evening, Robert strode back from the Bull and Mouth with a foul wind driving needle-sharp rain up under his hat into his face. Trickles of water ran down inside his collar. Not that he cared much. The glasses of heavy wet he’d sunk with a group of jolly companions prevented the cold from penetrating too deep. Hardworking men they were, who enjoyed a tall tale. And he’d told a few of his own to uproarious laughter. Especially those about some of his adventures with the ladies. Embellished a bit. And no names mentioned.
He’d enjoyed himself.
He frowned, not quite sure why he was heading home in the rain soaked through to the skin instead of being tucked up cosily in a warm bed with the saucy barmaid. Cheery though she was, he just hadn’t fancied her. Too many images of Miss Bracewell swimming around in his head. Lascivious images brought on by too much beer.
He lifted his head to get his bearings. Rain ran down his face, but he was so wet already it didn’t make a scrap of difference.
A little unsteadily, he plunged forwards. ‘Steady, Robin, or you’ll end on your backside.’ He got back into his stride, sure he was going in the right direction.
The evening had reminded him of the first time he and Charlie had ventured to the tavern near one of the ducal estates. They’d got rollicking, barely able to hold each other up on the way home, singing and laughing fit to burst.
In those days, he and Charlie had been inseparable. He missed that closeness. He missed his family. He even missed Father. They’d be at Meadowbrook now for the Christmas season.
Oh, no. No thinking about that, Robin. Not tonight.
Keep it sweet and light. That was the trick. What was the song they learned from the barmaid? How had it gone?
He stopped. Thinking. No. Couldn’t remember.
He started walking again, the mud sucking at his boots as he staggered forwards. A tree stepped out in front of him. He bowed. ‘Beg your pardon.’
Careful, Robert. You aren’t that bosky. Just a little warm.
He picked up his pace. Became aware of a tune hummed under his breath. That was it. He raised his voice.
Last night young Nancy laid sleeping,
And into her bedroom young Johnny went
a-creeping,
With his long fol-the-riddle-i-do right down to
his knee.
‘Bloody rude.’ He chuckled.
He knew one bedroom he’d like to creep into in the middle of the night with his fol-the-riddle-i-do, and it wasn’t the barmaid’s at the Bull.
And it wasn’t going to happen.
A shame, though. He didn’t know how he’d kept his hands off her up on the hill yesterday. A bit of a surprise, since he’d never been attracted to innocents. She was the kind of female men married, whereas he preferred high flyers or a merry widow. The lass was good at her drawings, though. Odd sort of occupation for a gently bred girl. It would all come to an end when she found herself married and raising a passel of children.
A husband with the right to caress her slender body, to palm her small breasts, to stroke those boyishly slim hips.
Desire jolted through him, hardening his body, quickening his blood.
What the hell was her family thinking, allowing her to roam the estate without an escort? A prime target for men like him. Or, worse yet, men without a shred of honour. They were out there. She would be an easy target.
What the hell. It wasn’t his business what the wench did. He had his work and his prospects to worry about and that was enough for any man. He picked up the next verse.
He said: Lonely Nancy, may I come to bed you, She smiled and replied, John you’ll undo me, With your long fol-the-riddle-i-do right down to your knee.
That wasn’t going to happen. He was likely going to be spending a great many nights alone. He shivered at a sudden chill running down his spine.
He stopped dead, his mouth open at the sight of a shadow huddled against his front door.
The shadow rose like a wraith. ‘Mr Deveril?’
‘Miss Bracewell?’ Well, how about that. He just had to think about her and she appeared—or was it a beer-induced vision?
He shook his head to clear his sight.
She lifted a hand. ‘I need your help.’
He knew the kind of help he wanted to provide and it involved helping her between his sheets. He wrestled his evil thought to the ground and his body under control. ‘At this time of night? Are you mad?’
Her eyes looked huge in the light of the lantern. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go.’
‘Good Lord, how long have you been waiting?’
‘I d-didn’t expect you to be out.’
If he had one scrap of sense, a smidgeon of honour, he would turn her around and send her straight home. And let her freeze to the bone? A few minutes while she warmed up wouldn’t hurt. He might a libertine, but he wasn’t a debaucher of innocents, no matter how badly they behaved.
‘Come inside before you catch your death of cold.’ He grabbed her elbow. Beneath his fingers, he felt a shudder rack her fragile body. He cursed under his breath and urged her through the door. It took only moments to coax the banked fire into a crackling blaze with a fresh log. A sudden gust down the chimney blew smoke into his face. He coughed.
She laughed, a low smoky chuckle, and his body tightened at the seductive sound.
He shook his head. ‘Did no one ever tell you it’s not appropriate to visit a man in his house alone, late at night?’ He tossed another log on the fire and poked at the embers. ‘Why are you here?’
No answer. The door latch clicked. He leaped forwards and caught the door before she opened it enough to slip out. A blade of cold air cut through the room.
Rigid, she stared at the rough wood inches from her nose. ‘I apologise for m-my intrusion. R-release the door.’
The raw hurt in her voice tore at his defences. He enfolded her fine-boned fingers in his. Ice cold. ‘Come back to the fire. I’m sorry if I sounded harsh—my concern is for your reputation.’
She snatched her hand out of his.
‘Is it not mine to r-r—’ she took a ragged breath ‘—risk?’ Despite the defiance in her gaze, she let him lead her back to the glow of the fire.
He shrugged. ‘Then think about my position.’
Her shoulders slumped. She raised her lashes, eyes dark with regret and something else he couldn’t make out. He could not read this woman. It was an odd feeling when most of them had been an open book.
Her soft mouth trembled. ‘I am s-sorry. You are right. I should not have troubled you.’
Right now, looking into those fathomless eyes through the muzz of alcohol with heat from the fire warming his body, he didn’t care about his job or her reputation. He desperately wanted to chase away the shadows in her face and see her smile.
‘Apology accepted. Sit closer to the fire.’ With hands that shook only slightly, he undid the strings of her oilskin cloak and tossed it aside. Beneath it she was as dry as a bone.
The grateful curve of her lips tempted him more than he dared admit. He cupped her face in his hands, small and chill and buttery soft to his work-roughened skin. The muscles in her jaw flickered against his palms. All he had to do was bend his head and claim those lushly formed lips.
A brush of his mouth against hers, a taste of heaven, one little sip.
Trust shone from her eyes.
The dregs of his conscience pierced his beer-soaked mind. Inwardly he groaned and dropped his hands to her shoulders and nudged her away.
Even the glow from the fire could not hide her blush. So pretty. So innocently knowing. So arousing.
He forced himself to turn away. He stripped off his coat and hung it behind the door.
‘You are soaked through,’ she said, sounding surprised. ‘Did you not wear your oilskins?’
‘It wasn’t raining when I left.’ He wasn’t going to tell her this coat was all he had. He retrieved a towel from the dresser and rubbed at his hair.
She was frowning. ‘You really ought to get out of those wet clothes. You could catch an ague.’
He’d have been out of his clothes and under his covers the moment he walked in the door if she’d not been standing on his doorstep. He’d like to be under his covers with her.
‘Why did you come here, Miss Bracewell? You said you wanted to ask me something.’
‘I did. But I think perhaps I was mistaken.’
Women. Now he’d have to charm it out of her.
A shiver ran down his spine. Despite the fire, the cold was creeping into his bones. She was right. He did need to get out of these clothes. He couldn’t afford to get sick. And even if he was going to take her home immediately, he should at least start out dry. ‘Turn your back.’
Her little gasp reminded him that it was not his place to issue orders.
‘Please,’ he said. ‘I am going to change and, short of going outside, there is nowhere to do it but here.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Come closer to the fire.’ She moved away from the hearth and faced the corner near the dresser. She looked like a child being punished for some naughtiness.
He couldn’t help smiling. She was naughty coming out here. He ought to smack her sweet little bottom. Damn. He did not need thoughts like that right now.
His glance fell on the brown-paper-wrapped parcel on the dresser top. He’d set it there before he went out.
He turned his back and set to work on the buttons of his vest with numbed fingers. ‘That package is for you.’
‘For me?’ She sounded astonished. And pleased. Almost as if she’d never before received a gift. What did she think was in there, a diamond necklace?
He scowled. His days of giving gifts of jewellery were long past. ‘Open it.’
Another shiver hit him. The effects of the ale were wearing off rapidly. He edged closer to the fire, stripped off the waistcoat, stripped off his neckerchief and shirt.
The sound of paper tearing was followed by a gasp. ‘Oh. It’s a book.’ She sounded just as pleased as if it was diamonds.
‘I thought you might find it useful. It has information about foxes and badgers. Their habits and habitats.’
‘Won’t you need the book? For your work?’
‘Mr Weatherby is teaching me all I need to know.’
A feeling invaded his chest. A feeling he had not felt in a very long time. Happiness. Because she was pleased. And something more. Something he wouldn’t acknowledge, not with this young woman who didn’t have a subtle bone in her body. She was just too vulnerable for a man like him.
Damn. Between her and the beer he was so confused he didn’t know what he was thinking. Then don’t think. Get changed and get her home.
He shed his boots and stockings and peeled his trousers off. He scrubbed at his damp skin, focusing on nothing but getting dry.
Frederica listened to the sounds behind her. A man undressing. The rustle of cloth. The thump of boots. The sound of a towel plied vigorously. The urge to watch battled with modesty. Her mouth dried. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Warmth flooded her skin.
Just one little peek.
He’d asked her to turn her back, to respect his privacy. She wasn’t going to betray his trust. But she did want to draw him and had promised herself she would pluck up the courage to ask.
She drew in a quick breath. ‘Will you sit for me?’
‘What?’ His voice was deep and very dark and laced with danger.
She started to turn.
‘Hold!’ The word was harsh.
She heard him move across the room. Away from her. Away from the fire.
She huffed out a breath. ‘I’ve always wanted to draw a person. In the flesh. I came to ask you if you would sit as a model.’
She heard a swoosh of fabric and turned to find him wrapped neck to toe in the quilt from the cot. Disappointment washed through her. How wicked she was, to be longing to ogle a naked male.
It wasn’t just about drawing. It was him. The desire to look at him made all the more t
antalising because of the glimpses she’d already seen.
No wonder he wore a disgusted expression. He must think her completely wanton.
‘Do you have any idea what people would say if they found you drawing me naked?’ he asked.
Well, that wasn’t a no, was it? ‘I-I don’t care what they say. I want to be an artist. One day I want to go to Italy. Take lessons from a master. Right now, I am using what I have to hand.’
‘Using?’
Now he sounded angry.
She waved an impatient hand. ‘Not you. I meant squirrels and foxes.’ She hesitated. If she told him and he betrayed her, it would ruin all her plans. Like everyone else, he wasn’t taking her art seriously. So galling. Why couldn’t anyone respect what she wanted to do? She inhaled a shaky breath. ‘I am being paid. For local animals. For a book about British fauna.’
He raised a quizzical brow and sat down on the bed. ‘Are you now?’
Was he laughing at her? His face was perfectly serious, but there was that slight curl to his mouth. If she could see his eyes, she would know, but they were in shadow. She moved closer, clasping her hands. ‘I know it sounds strange. I know women artists aren’t thought well of here, but on the Continent there are several who are famous. I just want to know if I have talent. Drawing the human body from life is the greatest test. You have a beautiful body. You make a perfect male subject. I am willing to pay for your services.’
He stiffened. His brows lowered. His fists bunched the quilt.
He was going to refuse. Somehow he’d been insulted by her admiration. ‘I cannot pay much,’ she said quickly. ‘Say a shilling an hour.’ She was gabbling. She couldn’t seem to stop. ‘It would be enough buy an oilskin,’ she added with a pointed glance at his sodden coat on the nail in the back of the door.
His expression as he gazed at her was unfathomable. ‘You are a strange young woman.’
Did he see that as a good thing or as something bad? Somewhat encouraged, she let go the breath she’d been eking out in little gasps as she spoke. ‘Will you? Please?’
He looked at her for a long moment. ‘Does it mean so much to you that you’d risk your reputation?’
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